


Where The Sidewalk Ends

by rileyriley



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Casual anticapitalist ideals, Chicago (City), City Personifications, Environmentalism, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Nymphs & Dryads, Supernatural Elements, creative use of geography of the city of chicago, one sided mikey way/pete wentz, one sided patrick stump/pete wentz, pete is lonely and there are so many pretty people around him that he cant touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:57:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6936442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rileyriley/pseuds/rileyriley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete <i>is</i> Chicago. He's Chicago in the way that concrete and rebar hold his bones together, the people walking down the street are his blood and soul, and he smokes like the industrial smokestacks that gave him life. His city <i>is</i> the back of his hand, or at least a few blocks are the back of his hand. Probably. </p><p>Pete is a city, filled with life and potential and history. He wants to know about the nymphs that live in the woods and the lakes and rocks around him. They don't want to know about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where The Sidewalk Ends

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time from start to end for this fic. It's the longest thing I've ever written on my own & I'm pretty proud that I was even able to finally get to the end of it. Thanks to my dumb bf @newflocks on tumblr who helped me edit it. Title from Where The Sidewalk ends by Shel Silverstein.
> 
> Disclaimer: The only time I've been to Chicago is on a layover once, like five years ago. I don't know anything about the geography of Chicago. I Tried.
> 
> Pete is Chicago personified & boy this au has so much stuff that didn't get into the fic. All about nymph's culture & other characters that didn't make appearances, how Cities work and who is the personification of different cities.

Across the park, there is a boy with eyes the color of the first warm spring day and hair like a fawn’s soft brown fur. Pete has never seen a fawn in person before, but he’s read about them in the library and seen them in movies, so he’s pretty sure.

The boy stares at him and Pete is scared a single breath will make the boy flee. He is hunched down, like he’s ready to buck something off with the tall antlers on his head. Pete makes sure he stays pressed against the warm brick of the building at the edge of the South Street Park. Pete’s wonders if the two blocks of green grass that stretch between the edge of the city and the forest is enough to keep himself from sprawling more, like a buffer from his pollution. The grass by his feet is yellowed from salting through the winter.

The boy ducks his head, then melts into the trees. Pete takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know how long they were staring at each other. But - _shit -_ his watch is beeping, and he swears because he’s gonna be late to meet Mikey. He didn’t expect to see the nymph after work today.

The spring is still trying to push through winter, but it’s still a comfortable walk to the subway station. The sun is still high enough that the shadows aren’t thrown over most of the street yet.

The train rattles and Pete wonders why not all subway lines are above-ground. Maybe that would heal some of the sickness under his skin. The sun is bright-white when he climbs back up to the streets and he nearly misses the bus transfer. He sits in a faded green bus seat and watches the streets through a grime tinted window. A _New Reformulated Coca-Cola!_ ad is peeling off at his bus stop. Pete stares at as the bus pulls away.

The streets to the docks are almost empty in the middle of the day. Pete feels guilty when he sees the bones of trees and grey water along the pier. Mikey is there waiting for him, swimming in circles waiting for Pete to show up.

Mikey holds his hands up and Pete pulls him out of the water and they sit on the edge of the pier together. Pete tries not to wince when he sees how grey and limp Mikey’s fins are getting. Instead, he tries to style Mikey’s slick-wet hair into a mohawk, but it soon turns into a coughing fit. Pete feels helpless, pulling his hand away before it can land on Mikey’s back.

“I saw him today,” Pete says after Mikey catches his breath.

“Is that why you were late?” Pete knows he’s joking because Mikey smiles with his eyes. Pete prefers when he smiles with his mouth, too, but he’s not too picky.

Pete tries his best innocent smile, and Mikey laughs with his whole body.

Pete laughs and shoves Mikey with his shoulder, and Mikey shoves him back, and that turns into wrestling each other on the pier until Pete sees the swollen, angry red handprint on Mikey’s arm. Pete lets go. Mikey’s so fragile and sickly. Every accidental touch turns bright red.

“I’m sorry,” Pete says finally.

Mikey’s eyes have already lost their bright happy shine. “It’s alright, it’s not your fault.”

Pete hugs his arms closer and pointedly looks away. They’ve had this fight before. How can it not be his fault? He doesn’t know how to fix himself, change it, how to not hurt Mikey with every heartbeat.  The harbor waters look even dirtier than when he first arrived. He feels the grit under his skin and slime in his veins.

“There are a lot of rivers into the forest, you know,” Mikey says, dripping hair still plastered to his forehead. “I could go look for him.”

Pete tries not to be too excited at the prospect - maybe he could write a letter to the nymphs in the woods telling them he means no harm. Or maybe Mikey can ask if they would meet him at the edge of the woods to _talk_ \--

But then Pete remembers the anger in the nymph’s posture. He can’t stop the self deprecating laugh.  “And tell him what, ‘come meet this guy who will slowly kill you with every breath?’” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Pete wishes he could take them back.

Mikey eyes him, then looks back over the water. “Or to not be afraid, that you aren’t going build anything into the forest.”

Pete scoffs. “Like I know what they’re going to build next.”

Mikey looks at him for a long while, but lets the conversation drop. Instead he says, “My brother wants me to stay with him for a while. He thinks —“ Mikey pauses, then starts again. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

Pete says nothing, but he knows why Mikey has to leave. His cough has never been this bad before, and he looks nearly as pale as the sun-bleached wood around them.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” The words sound distracted even to Pete’s ears, “maybe I’ll get to meet him one day.”

“Maybe,” Mikey agrees, “if you steal one of the ferries.”

Mikey grins with his eyes and Pete laughs.

 

* * *

 

Pete is restless that night. But, he figures, he’s restless most nights. He follows the neon lights downtown and finds a boy with doe eyes and soft hair. He’s a little too tall, his hair too dark, but Pete can’t be too picky.

He can tell the boy wasn’t born here, he’s from - “Vegas, baby,” the kid says like a parody of Frank Sinatra. The boy is laughing at his own joke, and of _course_ Pete is always welcoming to any visitors.

Pete whispers little city secrets in his ear, and the kid laughs and says if he wanted a tour he wouldn’t be at a club. Pete smiles like the sharp steel edges of skyscrapers and leans into him saying, “All right.”

The kid is bright and young. The red marks Pete left on his shoulders and hips, this time, were intentional.

 

* * *

 

It’s hard to not spend every day on the docks waiting for Mikey to come back but Pete still finds himself there more often than he’d like. Sometimes he just smokes and watches the water, letting his thoughts drift, and other times he catches himself before he’s too far down the pier and goes to the boutiques along the road instead.

But it’s been grey and dreary for three whole days and Pete is tired of it. It’s annoying how the sky can’t decide if it wants to rain or not and wish the clouds would just move _on_ already. The consignment shops haven’t gotten anything new since he was here last, but he looks out over the pier anyway. Everything is foggy and grey and boring, and even the neon lights at night can’t chase away the rain. Pete takes a drag on his cigarette. He knows Mikey won’t be back til the spring - not with how long he’s been gone already and how bad his cough was.

A cloud of fog rolls across the pier and then someone is standing there at the very end, looking around like they’re lost. Then they sit down at the edge of the pier like Pete does when he’s waiting for Mikey. Pete takes another drag and watches him, and the kid—they must be a kid, they’re so short— can’t seem to sit still but also trying very hard to be patient. Smoke curls out of Pete’s mouth when he laughs.

His footsteps are loud on the pier’s wood, and he crushes his burned-out cigarette before he gets to the kid.

The kid spots him upside-down, sprawled out on the pier. They jump up, and half-jog to him, smiling like Pete was expected. “Hey, are you— you’re Mikey’s friend, right?”

And that is, well - it explains a lot, but also unexpected. “I, uh, yes? Mikey didn’t tell me I was going to have visitors.”

The kid laughs and his smile is sharp, and he holds out his hand. “I’m Frank. Mikey told me I’d find you here eventually.”

“Pete,” he replies and shakes his hand. Frank’s grip is firm but his hand is cold and Pete wonders how he even knows Mikey. There is a distant roll of thunder before he can ask, though, and instead says, “Maybe we can continue this conversation before the clouds decide to piss on us?”

Frank glances up like he only just noticed the dark skies and apologizes with a brush of a hand.  The skies lighten and the weight of impending rain seems to lift off Pete’s shoulders. He laughs again but this time there is no echo of thunder. “Sorry,” he repeats, “Just remind me if you start getting wet or something.”

“Oh, the weather is - you?” Pete asks.

Frank nods, and they’re already walking back down the pier towards the city. “Comes with the — life, I guess,” he says with a grin, “so what does a city such as yourself _do,_ exactly.”

And Pete wants to say _oh, you know, poison my friends and accidentally kill nymphs_ , but instead he says “Well there’s a great band playing tonight,” because maybe, for once, he can have a friend who doesn’t get sick when he touches them.

“Great, you say? You know I’ve seen the best bands from Seattle to Boston. You’ve got a high bar.”

Pete gives him an incredulous look. “Yeah, but you haven’t seen the scene with me as your guide.” He jumps in front of Frank and walks backwards in time. “The best of anything you’ll find right here,” he says and thumps his chest, then steps back in stride with Frank.

“Very well,” Frank says with mock-drama and throws his arm over Pete’s shoulder, “show me these wonders.”

It’s still early, so Pete brings Frank to his favorite diner and they talk too loudly and drink too much coffee. Pete talks about the annual music festival and Frank listens rapt, the skies finally opening up outside. Frank tells him how he doesn’t go to festivals much but sometimes he can’t help it on the last days of shows and, really, only the most dedicated will stick it out in the rain and everyone has a better time for it.

Frank tells Pete about climbing trees in the lake Mikey’s brother hides away in and nearly getting thrown off the tree by the nymph sleeping there.  He tells Pete about other cities he’s been to, the small towns he’s passed through, and the empty, never-ending plains he once ran across as fast as he could and once caused a record-breaking tornado by accident. Frank’s laugh rolls easily off him and the distant thunder echoes warm and comforting.

Pete is trying to calculate tip in his head when he notices the rain letting up and he grins at Frank. “Next time I have to walk somewhere in the rain, if I curse your name, it’ll let up?”

Frank grins but shakes his head. “I’m not the only storm that wanders around the country, shithead.  Maybe I’d make it rain on you worse. Just you.  A personal raincloud,” he makes raindrop motions with his fingers, “I wonder if I can do that inside…”

“Come on,” Pete says before Frank can try, “maybe you didn’t scare everyone away from leaving their houses tonight. Who wants a shitty concert with no audience?”

“Fine, fine,” Frank laughs as they tumble out of the diner and their shoulders bump as they walk to the club.

Frank did not, in fact, chase away everyone with rain. It’s not as packed as it could have been, but Pete isn’t opposed to watching a show without being a sardine. They have a few drinks at the bar, but when the band sets up, Frank is out in the crowd like lightning. His energy is infectious and Pete finds himself jumping in the pit before the end of the first song.

Pete finds Frank among the crowd in the calm between songs, but the crowd surges with the bass and presses against Frank's back. Frank looks over his shoulder with bright eyes and a wide smile and they're dancing together in the crowd."

In the middle of a song, Frank could turn around to yell into his ear, or stand next to him and lean over, but instead he presses his head back onto Pete’s shoulder with dark eyes and says, “This band’s fuckin’ great” and Pete has to put a hand on Frank’s hip to keep himself balanced. He nods his head or he could just be bobbing to the music, he doesn’t know, because all Pete can think is _oh_.

Frank stays pressed to him for the rest of the set.

They don’t make it to the second band because Pete thought he could collect himself if he got another drink and Frank apparently thought _me too_ . Except _me, too_ apparently means pressing Pete against the edge of the bar and kissing him. Frank’s mouth is cool and he tastes like clean rainwater despite the beer and burgers he’d had tonight.

Pete just says, “ _Home._ ” and Frank’s eyes flash with his smile.

It’s a fucking downpour trying to run back to Pete’s apartment and most of it is spent breathless and laughing, trying to jump over puddles while thunder rumbles constant in the distance. Neither of them have a proper jacket or an umbrella and Pete says “We’re going to get electrocuted from all this lightening before we can even get to my house.”

And Frank quiets him with, “I won’t let it” and kisses him until the light changes and they can race across the road.

It feels like a movie, except where it isn’t, like how his clothes are wet and heavy and cold. His teeth chatter a little while his hands shake trying to get the key into the door of his apartment. Frank doesn’t help, laughing as he runs cold hands under Pete’s shirt, and then they’re shedding waterlogged clothes on the way to Pete’s bed. All of Frank feels cool and damp, but out of the rain Pete feels himself warming up almost too fast. Frank’s on top of him, biting a line down his chest, cool hands trying to touch him everywhere.

Pete lays back and takes it with a groan and this doesn’t feel anything like when he picked up the kid three weeks ago because Frank knows who - what he is, and Frank is something other as well and they can be inhuman together.

Frank sucks a bruise on the inside of his thigh and Pete has a full-body shudder. Pete threads a hand into Frank’s hair and Frank finally puts his mouth on his cock and he stops thinking at all.

There’s a sharp clap of thunder and Pete comes, and the lights across the city go out.

 

* * *

 

 Pete wakes up in the morning feeling more hungover than he should for how much he drank. Frank’s not in bed with him but there’s water next to his bed.  He drinks some of the water and dozes for another hour.  

When he wakes up again, there’s noise from the TV in the other room. Pete loots around his bed for a shirt and boxers and finds Frank sitting curled up on the couch in borrowed clothes drinking coffee.

Frank smiles when sees Pete and says, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever caused a blackout that way before.”  Pete gives him a confused look and Frank nods at the TV.

A news reporter is standing outside in a raincoat, sky still grey although no longer threatening rain, talking about the unusual thunderstorm last night and the sudden power surge that shut down the city’s old power systems.

Frank lets out a laugh, telling his coffee more than Pete, “You’re old.” Pete tries to give him shit, but ends up just grinning too.

“Was there really a blackout last night?” Pete asks. Did he wake up right when they restored power? The news reporter goes on about how tirelessly the electric companies worked to fix everything in eight hours. It wasn’t through the whole city, so maybe he’s more geographically-bound than he thought. Pete’s never had anyone to help him figure this out before.

“You passed out after you came,” Frank says and downs the last of his coffee, “Kind of a let-down. And I couldn’t figure out how to reset the time on your microwave.”

Pete looks over, and, yeah it’s definitely not a flashing 12:07AM. He resets it as his own coffee brews, and when he sits down on the couch, Frank stretches his legs out across Pete’s lap. The commercial ends and the news comes back on, starting with the weather forecast. The meteorologist promises clear skies by the end of the day and Frank chuckles.

“Are you leaving soon?” Pete asks, because he mostly knows how people work, but not whatever walking raincloud thing Frank is. And he kind of doesn’t want Frank to leave yet.

Frank eyes him with a grin. “That depends, are you kicking me out?”

“You did cause an eight-hour blackout. I should run you out of the city. I could’ve _died_.”

“But did you die?” Frank curls his legs back and kneels up next to Pete with a serious expression, “I gave you, like, the orgasm of the decade. And you left me high and dry.”

Pete puts his coffee down on the table before he can end up with, like, a burned dick. “I guess you can stick around then. Since I owe you a rain-check, or whatever.”

Frank lays across his lap and steals Pete’s coffee. He doesn’t leave until the next night.

 

* * *

 

It’s the worst part of autumn: after the leaves have fallen and everything looks like bones, and it’s too cold to do anything outside anymore. Everyone’s just waiting for it to snow so the cold feels slightly more justified. The odd jobs Pete usually picks up to pay his bills are starting to dry up again. He probably won’t have much until cars need to be dug out of the snow.

He spends times at the art galleries when he doesn’t get a job that day, or doesn’t feel like working, and curses how some days time passes to slowly. It’s only been overcast once since Frank left, which made him wonder if there are as many walking storms as there are cities, and if Frank visited in the winter, if it would snow. Maybe next time he’ll have to make Frank promise him a white Christmas. He wonders if Frank and Mikey even know what Christmas is.

Then he sees it’s dark - far too early, even after the time change. He steps inside a store after a drizzle starts up, and tries not to hope too hard that Frank brought the rain and he want’s to go to another show together. It quickly picks up and even Pete can’t pretend to be interested in the same five shirts for another half hour. He dodges between overhangs and makes it to the subway without feeling soaked-through. When he emerges from the underground, though, the lighting is near-constant and thunder angry and crashing. Storms usually roll through the city as fast as they came. This one doesn’t seem to be moving.

He’s hopping between storefronts and overhangs on the walk back to his apartment. It’s too close to be worth paying for a cab, and they all seem taken, anyway. He’s a block away from the building - he can see the doors - and the wind changes and comes barreling down the street, and Pete’s getting drenched again. There’s an angry clap of thunder that makes him jump. Pete’s pretty sure he’s gonna get electrocuted if he’s out here much longer.

There’s more lightning, but this time the roll of thunder sounds like a warcry, and Pete is thrown down the street.

“You made me hurt them!” Frank screams at him, “you made me hurt them and Mikey’s so sick already.” Frank is standing over him and the flashes of lightning have become manic behind him. “You made Mikey sick - you did that and then you made me make it worse.”

Frank’s fists are clenched tight and he’s tight like he wants to throw a punch, but there’s an awkward restraint in the distance he keeps from Pete. Like he’s scared to touch him. Like Pete will poison him just the same as he poisoned Mikey.

“Don’t touch him ever again,” Frank says, his voice steady and threatening. The rain is still heavy, almost deafening. “Don’t touch me, don’t touch _an_ yone ever again.” Frank kneels close, his wet hair dangling in his face and almost touching Pete. “Or I’ll _drown_ you.”

There’s a deafening clap of thunder and when Pete opens his eyes Frank is gone. He looks up and down the street and there’s not even a taxi inching down the road looking for customers. Pete scrambles up and runs to his apartment, throwing off the cold and wet clothes, trying to warm himself up. The storm clears fifteen minutes later and the sky is clear and kind and Pete can even make out four stars in the sky.

 

The sky stays clear through November and Thanksgiving and it’s a fucking _cold_ December when there should be disgusting slush piles on the corners of the streets. But there’s not. Everything is drab, in brown dead trees and grey cold concrete and black cracked asphalt, and blue _fucking_ skies. It’s all wrong for the season and Pete’s pretty sure he’s being starved out, somehow. Starved of snow days and holiday cheer, maybe. He’s pretty sure he can’t die of that, at least.

Just after New Year’s, there’s a dusting of snow across the city. Pete stops just to watch the snowflakes float down. A laugh escapes him, almost unexpected, maybe it isn’t such a hopeless winter after all. The city glows that evening like the Christmas they never got but the snow is gone the next day. Nothing sticks around, Pete thinks, not even the regular weather.

 

* * *

  

Pete hates that the coast is the first part of the lake to freeze and the last part to thaw. He knows that Mikey probably won’t show up til the summer, but he still hopes at the first sign of moving water. It’s the end of March and there isn’t even much snow to melt. It’s been the weirdest winter Pete can remember and maybe he _is_ a little old so he can complain.

The spring thaw hasn’t really hit yet, though, so nothing’s really growing. There’s still a few dots of color running around the old sun-bleached playground equipment, bringing some life to the late-winter park. Pigeons circle some abandoned food, and crows drone on from treetops at the edge of the park. There’s a group in matching forest green jackets trying to collect signatures today, and Pete likes to talk to them, even if he knows his signature doesn’t hold much legal weight.

“We are collecting signatures for the renovations of the South Street Park–” The kid stops, then grins. “Oh, wow, hey! Didn’t expect to run into you again!”

Pete laughs, because, well, that’s one way to shove all the awkwardness aside. His jacket has a neatly embroidered _Brendon_ and, yeah, a forehead like that is a little bit memorable. “Clubbing by night, saving the world by day?”

Pete didn’t expect him to stay after that night. Brendon is unrelenting sunshine and bright music, and the city - Pete - is long, cold winters and, today, partly cloudy and windy.

“You make me sound like a superhero,” Brendon laughs, “reverse Batman!”

Pete nods at the clipboard in Brendon’s hands. “So, what am I signing for today, Mister Wayne?”

Brendon straightens his back and squares his shoulders, ready for the practice-casual of the elevator pitch that whoever he works for had him memorize. “Parks are important for everyone in the city, I’m sure you have plenty of memories growing up spending time at parks.” Pete doesn’t but he’s also pretty sure that most people don’t spend their childhood avoiding being accused of witchcraft or satanism, so he just nods and lets Brendon continue. “I mean, it’s the end of March, and look at how full this park is! Keeping parks in good condition is important as having them. Well, the South Street Park hasn’t been renovated in over thirty years, and there have been talks of tearing down what’s left and selling it to private businesses to build over it.”

Brendon pauses dramatically, and it certainly works to let the words sink in, or whatever. Either Brendon is a really, really good actor or the company has some great writers. “It can be really hard for one person to feel like they’re making a difference, so, the nonprofit I work for has decided to be the organizing effort behind saving the park. We’re petitioning the city officials to restore the park. We only need a few dozen more signatures. So, can you help?”

He looks earnest, and also holding out the clipboard for Pete’s signature. He takes it and starts to fill it out, rocking back on his heels. “Wow, Brendon, Convincing. You have a lot of practice?” It’s a pretty standard form: name, date of birth, address, and _check here to receive more information about future petitions!_

“Yeah,” Brendon says, looking out for the next person he can snag a signature from, “We’ve been out here all month. And before that, a few months ago, we were trying to get signatures for the stricter sewage dumping regulations.” Pete remembers that, the push for cleaning up the harbor. Like somehow it was a shock that the city wasn’t treating the world around it kindly. Then again, most people can’t feel the sludge in their veins. “Turns out, it’s easier to get signatures for parks. It’s still kind of cool to see the changes happen in front of you, though.  Maybe the new park will have a swing set that I can actually use!”

Pete hands back the clipboard, and Brendon tucks it under his arm without even looking at it. “Man, don’t jinx it!” They both laugh.

“I’ll see you around, then?” Because Brendon is still working, right.

Pete nods and forces a smile, “Yeah, on the swing set in the new park. That I can use because I’m not _freakishly tall_.”

Brendon seems happy that Pete thinks the petition will work. Pete’s not sure how it works, but if he got the sewage law to pass, maybe Brendon can get this to pass, too.

 

* * *

 

It’s the first real spring day of the year in mid-April, and Pete’s back at the South Street Park. It’s the middle of the week, so the old playground is empty of parents with their kids. Pete takes advantage of the quiet and climbs on top of the tallest set of monkey bars to watch the treeline. Maybe this time the nymph will show up when he has time to walk up slowly and ask to be friends, or at least make a truce.

The sun is warm, and he pulls off his jacket. His last few cigarettes clatter quietly, and he takes the cigarette carton and lighter out of his jacket pocket. He fiddles with a cigarette before he moves to light it - when a crow starts _yelling_ at him.

It’s standing on the top of the slide, staring at Pete. He raises the cigarette to his lips again, and the cawing starts sounding like laughing. The bird adjusts its wings and makes a loud _squawk_ that startles Pete, and he drops the cigarette. The laugh-caw starts again, and the bird jumps to the ground and picks up the cigarette, and flies away.

Pete sighs as he watches the bird fly into the treeline. Now a _bird_ is spreading his garbage for him, what the fuck, there’s no way he could ever convince the nymph to meet him. He rattles the last of his cigarettes before stuffing everything back in his jacket pockets. Maybe he should stop smoking.

 

* * *

 

The vote is in late June and Pete gets an excited phone call at four in the afternoon like Brendon’s won the lottery. He also gets a much more comprehendible letter in the mail a week later. In the news, the governor promises to restore the parks, to break ground by September, but Pete’s pretty sure that’s only being said because it’s an election year and the petition had so much support.

“They didn’t get their shit together for this year,” Brendon says from inside his shirt that he somehow got tangled in while trying to get it off. “But I mean, there’s still actual plans being made, and it’s not even after the elections.” He throws the shirt off Pete’s bed. “Do you think he’s trying to get votes by getting shit done?” Brendon shrugs before Pete can respond, and just complains, “Dude, you have _got_ to get your AC fixed.”

Pete laughs. “Why would I when every time you come over you give me a free striptease?”

Brendon pretends to go for his pants, but can’t hold a straight face for any of it.

Pete throws an old magazine at him. “Whatever, it’d be nice if they could get it done sooner. So like, kids can enjoy it now, and not when the kids have kids, or whatever.”

“Wow, Pete, you should be our speechwriter.” Pete pretends to throw something at him but Brendon doesn’t flinch. He just sighs out, “Democracy in action. _Fuck_ Reagan”

Pete walks over to his bed, leaning down with hands on either side of Brendon’s head. “Hey now, you still owe me a park date.”

Brendon smiles, and yanks him down.

 

* * *

 

Pete hasn’t been to the aquarium in ages, but he saw an advertisement for this awesome deep-sea exhibit so of course he goes. As he walks from the subway station to the doors of the museum, his eyes linger on the piers out into the lake.

 _No_ , he thinks, _Mikey knows how to find me. He needs to get better first_ . It’s the end of September and cool and dry, and the longest he’s ever gone without seeing Mikey. He brushes the thoughts of _you killed him you’re a walking toxic city_ away with _Mikey is a force of nature, he’s got better luck surviving anything I could._

The exhibit is badass, if not slightly creepy. It makes him glad he lives on the edge of a lake, not an ocean.

He’s walking home considering catching a matinee of Crocodile Dundee or looking for work tomorrow when Mikey is sitting on the curb outside his apartment, eating an orange snow cone.

Mikey, having never experienced artificial sweeteners or ice in September before or something, doesn’t notice him.

But it’s Mikey, right there, with disheveled and dry clothes, his hair still a wet mess, bare feet, looking healthier than he has in ages.

“Mikey!” Pete says, and runs down the rest of the block. Mikey clambers up to meet him. Pete hugs him, but then jumps back — but there’s no angry red marks on his skin.

Pete looks at him, gaping, and Mikey just smiles.

“Sorry it’s been so long, my brother, you know,” and Pete nods, like he even knows anything about Mikey’s brother or what happens when Mikey’s home. He’s just so happy to see Mikey again.

Mikey grabs Pete’s hand and pushes the snow cone into his hands. “Try this! It’s so good - just - just try it!”

Pete just looks between the ice and Mikey, because it’s just a snow cone, what’s so special? But Mikey is giving him such an excited, expectant look he makes a show of taking a gulp and nodding. There’s not a lot of syrup left, but he can still taste the artificial orange. “Yeah, it’s great um - how did you get it?”

Mikey always looks down when he’s embarrassed, but his laugh is bright. “I got lost trying to find your house. I think this girl felt sorry for me, she gave it to me.”

Which Pete kind of - Mikey hasn’t had a bad reaction to it yet, he hasn’t all day. If they end up at the park again, maybe he won’t buy Mikey another snow cone. Maybe then he’ll get to see Mikey more than once a year.

Pete spends the half of the walk to the South Street Park telling MIkey about Brendon’s work. Mikey seems kind of closed off in his replies and Pete trails off in the middle of explaining that the parks were going to be cleared to expand the financial district, realizing that he was basically admitting to Mikey he was a polluted, constructed mess who barely is able to prevent becoming an even more of a degenerate mess.

“I can call him later, if you want to meet him.” Pete says.

Mikey looks suddenly much more interested in the conversation. “Yeah! He seems like a cool dude.”

The South Street Park is old, everything rust-spotted or worn smooth from use. Pete looks through the trees across the field for any signs of the nymph boy. The thins woods are empty.  Pete hopes he didn’t kill him.

Mikey’s already halfway up a jungle gym shouting, “Beat you to the top!” and Pete runs after him.

 

The sun is casting everything orange when Pete is sitting cross-legged on the merry go round as Mikey lazily kicks it around.

“This is where I’d come to try to see him,” Pete says as the woods slowly pass in front of them.

Mikey pushes the merry go round faster, and lets it slowly come to a halt on its own. They’re facing the city, the residential buildings that line the park.

“His name is Patrick,” Mikey says. He sounds resigned, like he’s breaking a promise telling Pete this. “He hates you, he’s afraid he’s going to die because of you. They all are.”

Of course Mikey’s gone and met him, because Pete couldn’t go and also couldn’t stop talking about him. Pete rests his head against the steel handlebars and closes his eyes.

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear you aren’t taking down the park.” Mikey ventures a smile. “I can tell him?”

“Yeah that would probably be -- good.” Pete sighs out. “Maybe he won’t want to punch me.” He steps up and off the merry go round. “We should probably get back to my place, get dinner, and see if Brendon can come with us to the concert.”

Mikey presses his lips together. “I should probably go home, actually. My brother will worry, but I’ll come back sooner this time though, I promise.”

Pete hums in agreement, and doesn’t look to see if Mikey’s arm is red when he helps pull him up. The walk back to the pier is long and quiet but the city hums around them in defiance. They hug again at the end of the pier, and Mikey dives quietly into the open water. Pete goes straight to the concert and wakes up the next day in a bed across town from his apartment.

 

* * *

 

Pete doesn’t know if he should worry about how easy it is for him to fall back into old habits. All the new employees at the secondhand bookstore and music shop along the edge of the lake have learned his name, and one kid even saved him an original Frank Sinatra vinyl that Pete keeps for Brendon’s Christmas present. It’s getting cooler but he just puts on a warmer jacket while he smokes at the end of the pier. Mikey said soon.

There’s been a first frost and Pete’s starting to wonder if sooner means next spring. He doesn’t know Mikey’s brother. He stubs out his cigarette. He’s grateful for the garbage can the city installed a few weeks ago.

The water splashes quietly against the wood, and Pete sees a Mikey-shaped blob beneath the waves, like when he doesn’t know if Pete’s waiting at the pier yet, cause everything looks distorted through the water. Pete had laughed when Mikey explained it, because yeah, sometimes he would try to open his eyes underwater and he couldn’t see anything.

Pete kneels down and reaches a hand out to Mikey, calling out, “Already here, Mikes, you don’t have to get lost this time.”

And the figure jumps out and grabs him, pulling him down into the cold lake water.

He flails, trying to twist and kick as hard as he can against the water in his heavy denim jacket, but there’s sharp fingers in his shoulders and suddenly bright, sharp pain against his neck and all his muscles are straining and everything feels like pain. Pete can’t hear anything against his thrashing - his lungs are burning he can’t be down here longer–

Pete swallows a mouthful of water when he’s thrown against the piling with his head above water. He coughs and chokes and starts to catch his breath, and whoever is holding him up is waiting for him to quiet down so he can listen. The breeze makes his skin prickle icy in a different way than drowning does.

“I don’t care what he thinks, he’s never coming here again. You will never see him again or you will _die_.”

The figure digs his fingers into the bite on his neck and leans in close, and Pete yells.

“There’s nothing you can do. Don’t try me.”

Then the arm holding him up is gone, figure moving too fast under the water for Pete to follow. He sheds his jacket into the murky water, and manages to keep himself afloat until he can properly breathe again.

Standing back up on the pier, Pete nearly throws up when he sees the circle of black water where he was floating, and touches his neck, bringing his hand up to see. Black-sludge blood. He takes off his shirt and presses it against his neck to try to stop the bleeding, and staggers home.

 

* * *

 

It’s a week later, and the bite mark - it must have been a bite, all the sharp lines pointing towards the center. Like a less cool Jaws shark bite, since drowning is kind of uncool. He deliberately doesn’t let himself think if he actually would have drowned for how long he was under water, if being a City kept him alive.

It’s black and angry, and probably the worst hickey he’s ever gotten. Sharks don’t give good hickies, apparently, if there’s such thing as a bad hickey. But it’s inky-black, not bruise-purple. He really doesn’t want to have to wait years for this to fade, like his tattoos do.

There’s a knock at the door and Pete throws on one of the shirts that does manage to mostly cover it. He’s been through most of his closet this week, and has been considering wearing more scarves this fall.

“Pete!” Brendon sings from the other side of the door, “Pe-ter! Peter-Peter-pumpkin-eater!”

Brendon’s eager smile is waiting for him when he opens the door.  “Dude! Did all of Chicago’s music scene suddenly sell out? It’s been, like almost two weeks! Where have you been, man!”

Pete laughs and shrugs as Brendon walks into his apartment. “A busy week at work, you know.”

“Oh, so the house painting job took two days instead of one, I see, I see.” Then Brendon looks closer at his neck and, okay, maybe this shirt didn’t cover it as much as it should have. “Dude, did you get a new tattoo?”

Pete puts his hand over the bite, already going red. “I - um, yes?” It’s a good excuse for why he’s been avoiding Brendon, why didn’t he think of it sooner?

Brendon gasps and his eyes go wide as he puts something together. “Did you get a new tattoo and the artist fucked it up!” It’s not even a question, Brendon is so excited. “You gotta show me, I won’t laugh at you! I promise!”

“No, man,” Pete starts, watching out that Brendon doesn’t try to tries to pry his arm off his neck, “it’s terrible, alright? I just gotta - let it heal, and I’m gonna get it covered.”

That could be something that would work, at least make it less cancerous looking. Maybe he should talk to Brendon more often when he’s trying to figure out how to fix his shit, since staying home and staring in the mirror for a week didn’t help him at all.

“Come on, come on,” Brendon starts, moving to pull Pete’s arm away so he can look. But Pete’s got some practice in Bredon-dodging and it ends up more of a chase around the apartment.

“Fine, fine,” Pete concedes. He’s pretty sure he can pass it off as an absolutely awful tattoo, considering all the other idiosyncratic shit in his life Brendon’s accepted without a blink.

When he pulls away the shirt collar, it’s ink-blue-black and white scar tissue. Brendon gives him a sympathetic look. “And when did you notice this wasn’t what you asked for?”

“Shut up,” Pete says.

 

* * *

 

The weird thing is that the park restoration is actually happening. The plans were debated and approved over the winter, and construction starts in March. _March_. The winter is mostly normal, snowstorms and all. Maybe a new storm system picked up this route, because he’s pretty sure Frank is never gonna forgive him.

He doesn’t see Mikey before the lake starts to ice over, but he’s not surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. He burns through a stack of sci-fi books that a high school girl recommended to him at the bookstore. Maybe there’s someone in space he can touch that won’t turn red and grey.

Pulling out the old structures in the park is easy, all scrap metal and half-rotten wood. The first area reopened is the open field with a new baseball diamond in one corner and a beautiful wooden gazebo in another, near the tree line. Everything is happening so fast, faster than he thought bureaucracy could ever work, and thinks that maybe if he does put his mind to something that change really can happen.  Pete hopes that the boy - Patrick, he reminds himself - will see the park restoration as a peace offering. Sure, it’s construction, but it’s not clear-cutting and glass-metal-concrete buildings. That’s got to count for something.

There’s new landscaping and everything, and the city feels more open than it has in years. It’s just a park, a small one, at the edge of the city. But for once, Pete feels a little bit clean.

The summer crests and there’s still no Mikey. He tries not to be disappointed, so he goes to the park when he thinks about going to the newest aquarium exhibit. He helps collect signatures for Brendon. He volunteers in the greenway clean-up groups. He wonders if, one day, the sludge under his skin might run red.

The South Street Park landscaping is all new, though, and new things take a while to grow wild and strong. The tulips planted next to the gazebo must have been overtaken by vines, which has been crawling up and around the new wooden structure. It’s almost as dense as the old ivy covering a wall of the courthouse, and it’s only been a few months.

Sometimes Pete will sit in the ivy-shaded gazebo for hours and just watch the woods. He’s seen Patrick four times in the past two weeks, and each times his eyes are filled with fury.

It’s a heavy August day, cloudless and humid. The park is filled with people wading through the heat like the shade out here is better than a broken AC. Pete buys a snow cone from a vendor in the park (half orange and half blue raspberry) and walks along the dirt path along the edge of the woods. The only people along the path had been two girls deep in conversation about the engineering of the Golden Gate Bridge and an older man who fed the last of his sandwich to the birds.

Pete had been watching the woods, seeing a group of children playing tag weave through the trees. When he looks back towards the gazebo, he stops. Patrick is standing in the path, arm outstretched towards the ivy, staring at him. Waiting.

Patrick has never been this close, never been out of the safety of the trees. His antlers are tall and sharp. Pete doesn’t move.

Patrick balls his fist, pulls his hand back towards him like he’s pulling a rope tied to the gazebo. There’s a long groan as wood creaks, and several loud cracks as the beams splinter and collapse. Pete flinches and jumps back, but Patrick is still there, stone-still, when he looks back. Then Patrick walks into the tree line and disappears, right past the children who stopped and stared at the destroyed building.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, the older the habit, the easier it is to fall back to. Pete starts avoiding the park, the pier, even Brendon. He fakes a cold over the phone and doesn’t feel too bad. He sticks to the oldest, most built-up parts of the city and lets himself get lost among the alleys.

He knows Brendon is concerned, but also busy. There’s a new water conservation effort push or something, and he just got promoted to never-ending meetings and fill-ins. He leaves messages on Pete’s phone about all the reforms that are passing.

Sometimes, Pete sees Brendon at concerts, so Pete leaves and finds another club to get lost in.

The bite mark isn’t fading, but it doesn’t bother him much anymore, either. Some people ask when he’s pulling clothes back on as he leaves, but _tattoo got fucked up_ rolls easily off his tongue. He’s been sleeping on his neck badly; some mornings he wakes up and can’t even stretch it out.

His limbs feel light, like he could run for miles and not tire out, but his head weighs him down. He’s alone, and it’s his own doing. There aren’t things out there, like he is, with tar for blood and rebar for bones.

He’s doing a job in the financial district, crossing town midday he doesn’t think twice as he passes the book store. Something catches his eye - maybe the bright flashes of sunlight on the lake, or a bird flapping it’s wings, or _something_ \- and he looks down the docks and Mikey is standing there. He _knows_ it’s Mikey, and his stomach rolls. He puts a hand instinctively on his neck, over the mark, and doesn’t notice he’s already walked to the first boards of the pier. It feels like the first time he saw Patrick.

They stare at each other across the pier and Pete has to lean on metal piling. Mikey walks towards him and Pete falls to his knees, pain coursing from mark, pulsing hot up his neck, down his back and making all his muscles seize. When he can look up, he sees Mikey running towards him, and if he could scream, he would. He can’t. He blacks out.

 

When he wakes up, someone must have rolled him on his side. He sits up, and a young woman (born and raised here, she won’t ever leave Chicago behind but she wants to go to school on the West Coast) is smoking against the piling, bored.

“Sorry,” he says, “thanks.”

She shrugs a shoulder. “You weren’t vomiting when I found you, but you probably shouldn’t take whatever you did again.”

Pete nods, because people making their own stories about what happened to him always has been easier. He stands up, and holds her jacket out to her. “Thanks,” he says again, “I won’t.”

She slips it back on and offers him a cigarette, and wanders back into the city. He hasn’t smoked in months, but he takes it. After all, his lungs can’t get much blacker than they already are. Pete goes to the end of the pier and all he finds is _I’m sorry_ carved into the grey, dead wood.

Pete’s heart feels like a stone. He can’t be alone. He _can’t_ be. Mikey has his brother, there are other storms that cross the country all the time, Mikey told him more than just Patrick live in the woods. He can’t be alone. There has to be more cities like him.

He walks home with purpose, stopping only to buy more cigarettes at a newspaper stand. He finds the number to the airline company easily, asking when the next flight to New York City is.

He is not alone. He will find strangers like him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lin Manuel Miranda is New York City. Ask me about the au @funghoulies on tumblr. There's lots of other stories that this au has to tell that maybe I'll get to writing one day.


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